Paraesthesia, or Love for the Undiscerning

Paraesthesia (or, Love for the Undiscerning)

Paraesthesia: [Greek], any subjective sensation, experienced as numbness, tingling, or a 'pins and needles' feeling. (Mosby's Medical Dictionary, 3rd ed.)

Dawn.

In the kitchen, nobody has spoken in over five hours, since we locked ourselves in here and hammered planks across it to stop him breaking in.

Ginny, Ron and Harry are sitting against the back wall. Ron is sitting slack like an unattended marionette, head occasionally tipping to one side whenever he nods off. He jerks himself awake, of course, and sometimes he brandishes a rolling pin. Ginny is sucking a thumb, sitting with her legs crossed and looking thoroughly bored. Harry is propped up against Ron's shoulder, looking out the window. We boarded that up too, in the event that he gets out of the house before the sun comes up properly.

Molly and Arthur are sitting aghast at the table. Molly is nursing her ninth cup of coffee since one am, because she has resolved to stay awake and make sure that if he breaks in, she can get everyone off to safety. She's shaking like a fish and her cup rattles every time she sets it down.

The Ministry haven't arrived yet.

Arthur, meanwhile, has dozed off. Of all of us, he is the only one to have gotten any sleep last night.

And Hermione is up with me on the counter top, legs dangling down, bare in shorty pyjama pants, and kicking silently at the cupboard door below. I'm beside her, my wand pointing at the door, waiting, oh, just waiting for it to burst open and for all of us to get ripped to shreds.

The Ministry haven't arrived yet.

The first rays of sunlight poke out from the few gaps of glass, and I think we all silently breathe a sigh of relief. I slip off the counter, and approach the door slowly.

I could do this the easy way, with magic, or not.

I don't. I grab one of the boards, and rip it, the nails in the door frame causing the wood around it to splinter and chip. I don't stop, tearing each and every piece of plank down, everybody silent behind me. I unchain the door, and pull the deadlock across. Stepping back, I let the door swing open, waiting a few seconds before I step out into the landing, the hair on the back of my neck involuntarily rising.

There is a long, deep gash in the plaster leading from the kitchen to the living room. There's also something far too quiet about this situation.

The portrait. Mrs Black. So far, she is the sole casualty.

Today, my black list had expanded by one name. Correction: his name had always been on it, but today Severus Snape was going to replace Dolores Umbridge at the top of it.

The fluffy innards of a cushion are draped casually, almost artistically, on the ground below me. A duck feather is stirred as I walk past, and my extremities had started to tingle and the bile rise in my throat when the living room comes into contrast and I see copious amounts of blood staining the carpet. Molly had always wanted an excuse to rip the carpet up, and now she has one.

My immortal nemesis, the troll-leg umbrella stand, is no more. It is merely taxidermied flesh and polyester stuffing draped like macabre tinsel over the hallstand and lighting fixtures. Well, fixtures is only a figurative term, because they're no longer properly affixed to anything.

Take a right. A sofa is upturned, and the room is about two hundred per cent brighter than it ever has been, in part due to the fact that the curtains have been completely ripped off the railing, and underneath them is a shaky, rising and falling lump which is making wheezing sounds and has started to stain the black velvet into a rustier hue.

Thank god the Ministry haven't arrived yet.

I kneel down slowly besides one end of the curtain. I lift it up slowly.

A human foot. Large feet, a little fine brown hair.

Further.

A calf. The right side is relatively untouched, however the left side sports a deep bite wound, festering and yellow. The knee looks twisted, as if the patella had been forced to the back of the knee. Seemingly the source of the stain.

Further.

God, he's naked. I pull the curtain to one side. I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate his dignity being compromised like that. Ribs and hip bones sticking out against pallid, English skin which is highlighted by deep gashes across the belly. An elliptical birthmark against the first floating rib. Clavicles sticking out, shoulders broad yet fleshless.

Hands and arms. Oh god. Hands and arms almost completely ripped off, fingers gnawed to the bone, fingernails with so much flesh and crap underneath them that it almost completely explains the state of his stomach.

Further.

A neck. A neck that looks like the occupant tried slicing it open. It's coated in a sheen of perspiration and blood, and starts to get prickly as I move up to the jaw.

His eyes are open, and he looks up at me. They're all red and swollen, and he's got a shiner to the left eye, thanks to me. The brittle skin on his lips is dry and cracking, and his hair is positively soaked through. His nose is bleeding.

I don't really have much to offer to him, or say to him. He's trying to muster a smile at me. All I do is slip the dressing gown off my shoulders, leaving me in my bra and knickers. I spit on the corner of the robe a little, and prop him up so he's lying in my lap. I don't care that I haven't showered in nearly two days, or that my bikini line is probably as dense as the Borneo rainforests. I sponge his face with the towelling, desperately trying to wipe some of the blood and dirt off him. He's closed his eyes now, grimacing a little should my robe stray too close to a wound.

"Could I get a little help in here, please?!" I ring out, hoping that someone has the incredible foresight to bring me out some rubbing alcohol or some boiling water, or even some towels. I hear the kitchen's inhabitants stirring into action, kettles being banged and drawers being opened and slammed shut. I stroke his hair, twisting it in my fingers and coating them in sweat and oil.

"T... Ton..."

I press my finger to his lips, and stroke his hair again.

"They'll take you to hospital as soon as we can clean you up. You're fine now."

He's starting to shake, and I realised that by pulling the curtain off him I've taken away his sole source of warmth. I pull it back over again, but the shaking doesn't stop.

"I... I... I didn't hurt anyone, did I?"

In trying to push everyone into the kitchen and hold him off, he struck me from behind, nearly ripping my spine out. Had his claws come even a tenth of an inch closer, he probably would've severed my spinal cord. It's stung so badly all night, and I think my screams nearly brought the house down when Molly tried pouring vinegar on the wound to try and prevent it from infecting. But giving an honest answer at a time like this is definitely not the thing to do.

"Of course not. Everybody is fine. Don't worry about it, ok?"